Fantastic Tales: Volume 2

A Feathered Heart

What happens when a hunter falls in love with his prey?  The tragic tale of Benjamin Farmstone and WingDancer. 

A Romantic Fantasy

Benjamin Farmstone crept through the brambles, his young nephew close behind him. Though he was a big man, his footsteps were light against the ground and the leaves barely rustled as he passed. He wasn't the greatest hunter on the West Side for nothing. Even so, the hart lifted its head, its nose to the air, nostrils flaring. Ben froze. His nephew held his breath. The wind had shifted. The hart bobbed its head, ears flicking from side to side, eyes wide, but it did not run. Instead, it lowered its graceful neck and turned back to the bushes.

Ben lifted his bow, nocked his arrow and pulled the string taut. It was a powerful hart with rippling muscles, a fine white coat and such a glorious twist of antlers that he salivated. It was a prize catch and almost a waste to kill. Almost. He took a breath, slowed his heart and relaxed his stance. He would not miss. He never missed. He released, and the arrow flew. At the soft twang of the bow, the hart lifted its head. His aim was true and deep, the arrow piercing it just behind the shoulder with a satisfying thump. It gave a startled bleat, kicked its back legs, then darted away.

'Good shot!'

Scott made to charge after it, but Ben slammed a big hand against his chest, almost knocking his nephew to the ground. 'Wait. Let it die.'

'But you'll lose it.'

Ben looked at his nephew. He was only young, no more than twelve, his cheeks pink in the cold, his blue eyes bright with excitement. 'Who is the hunter here?'

Scott dropped his head and folded his arms. Ben removed his quiver, put aside his bow and sat, listening as the creature crashed through the trees, its hooves pounding into the distance. He could see his nephew glaring at him through his fringe. Ben ignored him, removed the flask from his inner coat pocket and took a swig of ale.

While they waited, Scott paced and Ben drank. It was a frigid morning, but the sun soon glared through the trees as it climbed into the sky, thinning the light padding of snow on the ground—the last of the winter frost.

When enough time had passed, Ben hefted himself to his feet.

'Finally,' Scott said.

Ben seized his nephew's arm before he could hurry ahead. 'Wait. I don't want you mucking up its trail. Keep to my side.'

Its trail wasn't difficult to follow: leaves and vines streaked with blood and fur, hoofprints clear in the melting snow, broken branches and trampled bushes left behind in its wake. Ben's arrow had dislodged and was lying on the ground, its shaft pink with blood. He picked it up and sheathed it. He sniffed. It was close, its musk thick on the air.

It was a strong beast, and it was almost three hundred yards before they found it.

'Oh,' Scott grunted.

It lay on its side, limbs akimbo, almost as white as the snow, except where the blood stained its coat in a deep red blush. Scott stared at it. Its eyes were open, a light shade of blue, empty now.

'What do we do with it?' his nephew asked.

'We skin it, then quarter it.' Ben pulled out his blade and knelt beside it.

Scott paled. 'Here? Now?'

'Unless you want to drag it back whole.'

His nephew looked over his shoulder, then dropped to his knees beside him.